


The Unpublished Chronicles of John Watson's Blog

by Foreverwholockedme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, John is a Mess, John's Journal, John's blog, M/M, Mild Smut, just random blog posts, no cohesive timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-10 15:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12915261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foreverwholockedme/pseuds/Foreverwholockedme
Summary: It's pretty much a collection of all of the blog posts that John has written and never posted to his blog, be it because he forgot, or because the posts became too personal to share with his hundreds of readers.A look into John Watson and how he discovers his feelings for Sherlock through a series of unpublished posts





	1. Chapter 1

24th of December

The Case of the Secret Santas 

That’s a title in progress and I might delete it, I don’t know, Sherlock will be here later to edit and proofread as he usually does.

Anyway, happy Christmas everyone! Sherlock’s out right now and no he’s not out on a case, he’s actually at the shops with Mrs. Hudson if you can believe it. She told him that she would make him a strawberry cheesecake under the condition that she helped him with the groceries. The man’s got a fondness, and by that, I mean that he absolutely loves cheesecake and, so he went, which means I’ve not got a lot of time to write this.

So, Scotland Yard had their annual Secret Santa yesterday, but it’s a week-long process to give people time to get gifts and covertly, not actually covertly ask their person what they want. Well, earlier in the week, Sherlock and I went to drop off some solved case files to Lestrade and, right before we could leave he pulled out a hat and told us to pick a name. There weren’t many names left, but I went first. Sherlock, of course, refused to take part in Secret Santa and deemed it as yet another “mindless, and idiotic indulgence of materialistic greed” I had to promptly remind him that he spent £100 on a shirt because he thought he looked good in it, although he claimed that it would help him on cases where he had to “seduce” yeah right. After my astute observation, as he would say, he rolled his eyes and pulled a name out of the hat. When we were in the cab, I peeked at the name and it was Greg. Sherlock looked over at my name and scoffed. When I asked to see his, he didn’t show me and said that it defeats the purpose of the secret. I had a feeling he peeked while we were leaving the building and wasn’t telling me because he wasn’t happy with his choice, which could have been anyone in the whole police force.

After the drawing, Sherlock had been uncharacteristically quiet, I asked him if he was hungry and he only grunted, I took it as a yes. I could have sworn, just as I was putting the risotto on the plate, I caught Sherlock looking at the name and he seemed sort of put out, I guess, at his recipient. I wanted to ask but that would only end in a row, and I didn’t want to spoil the holidays by being angry at him. Christmas is probably the only holiday that I don’t fancy being alone for, and I don’t know how long it’s been since Sherlock’s spent Christmas with anybody. We ate in relative silence for the most part that night. He asked me how work was, surprisingly, and I answered but that was all that was said. I knew that something was definitely wrong when he went straight to his room after dinner. His bedroom is the last place he would go, and certainly not while I was still awake. It worried me, but I left it alone and went to my room early too.

It wasn’t until two days later that I came home from work and found Sherlock lying on the sofa, wrapped in his dressing gown and blankly watching telly. I hung my coat up and said hello, to which he barely responded. I walked over to him and started carding my hands through his hair, I asked if he was alright. He didn’t stop me, and he didn’t answer either. I grabbed his curls gently (they are quite soft) and tugged to show that I wanted to sit with him. He’s my flatmate, yeah, but he’s also my best friend ( ~~and quite possibly more than that~~ \- delete later) and he was clearly having a rough time, the least I could do was watch his shows with him. He rested his head on my lap and I kept running my hand through his hair, hoping that he would say something to me. I think it was two hours before I heard him speak.

“I got Sally.”

All I could say was, “Ah.” Anything more than that and I felt that he would have my head. He sat up and pulled the paper out of his gown pocket. It had been folded and unfolded many times, like he couldn’t believe that he was reading the name right.

“I don’t even know where to begin for her, and it’s not like I can just ask her what she’d want for Christmas, now can I?”

I looked in the direction of my room and back at him.

“Well, if it’s really bothering you, I can switch with you. It’ll be easier for you to sneak information out of Greg.”

What I wanted to say is that he could just observe something about Sally and know what she wanted, or something she would appreciate. He shook his head.

“To be honest, it would be unnecessary for me to even put so much thought into such a moronic concept. Secret Santa, it’s obvious that nobody would ever get what they wanted if they weren’t allowed to speak to the person they were going to be gifting.”

I nodded and replied, “Sure, I get that it’s stupid, but it’s more about just giving friends things they think they would like. Also, it could just be the idea of a couple of dicks who just want to piss off their co-workers, and I’m thinking Scotland Yard’s is the latter.”

He crumbled the paper up and let it fall on the empty seat of the couch. He tried to remain indignant, aloof even, but we’ve been together long enough for me to realize that he was sad.

“It figures that I would get Sally, the perfect amount of irony.”

He stood up and put his hands in his gown. His shoulders were sagged, and my ruffling of his hair made him look like a petulant child.

“So, you don’t want Greg?”

He shook his head and gave me a sad smile.

“It doesn’t matter who I get, John. I’m sure whoever drew my name just balled it up and binned the paper.”

“Don’t think like that, Sherlock. I’m sure that whoever drew your name got you something, can’t really speak for the quality of that gift mind you.”

“Don’t try to butter me up, John. I know that me participating in this will only result in humiliation, hell, they probably did all of this to play some sort of cruel trick on me. People like you, John, and you chat up the officers while we’re there, they’ll get you a nice gift. Maybe a watch since yours stopped working, or a tie since you like to wear those to work. They might even get you a jumper worth more than their paycheck because you’re you, John Watson!”

I wondered if he realized that I don’t have any other friends besides him and Greg and Mike.

“You’re caring, you’re nice to people. They look forward to you, and anyone who says otherwise is a complete and utter fool incapable of even processing their own thoughts. People already think you mad to be friends with me, let alone share the same roof with me.”

I put my hands in my lap, still sort of missing the way his curls coiled around my finger moments ago.

“What are you saying, Sherlock?”

“I don’t think I’ll be joining you to the Secret Santa this Wednesday, John. Give Greg my regards when you see him, good night.”

He walked into his room and quietly closed the door. I don’t know what I imagined when he first brought up the Secret Santa. It was quite disheartening, actually, to see him think so hard about such a pointless Christmas tradition. The worst part about it was that he was sure that the whole of Scotland Yard came up with this just to have a laugh. Sure, the Yard isn’t particularly warm toward him, and believe me, he gives them plenty of reason not to be sometimes, but I think that on some level, he did want to participate and maybe if it had been anyone other than Sally Donovan, he would have put a bit more effort into it. My thoughts were thrown off when I got a text from Sally. It was like I was in a bad Christmas comedy.

She sent me a message saying that she drew none other than Sherlock Holmes, and she tried to pawn it off to other officers, but they all declined, so she was stuck with him. I was a little miffed at that and I asked her if there was a reason she was talking to me. She needed help getting him a present. I groaned, and told him that some of his chemistry stuffs were broken or thrown out by Mrs. Hudson, and that he had been complaining about that for some time. I also told him that he was in need of a new scarf since he tore his blue one running after a suspect, preferably dark colours. I gave her a few other ideas that I think he would appreciate, but I wasn’t the one buying the gift. She sent “thanks” with nothing capitalised so I’m going to assume she was being sarcastic. I pocketed my mobile and got up to go to Sherlock’s room. I put my ear to the door, but I heard nothing. I sighed and once again went to bed early, thinking about things Greg would want.

The day of the Secret Santa I went by myself after work. When I got there, there was a little table with snacks, mulled wine, and cider and no office party is complete without the shitty Christmas songs playing from someone’s laptop, which I vaguely heard in the distance. I set my gift down on the gift table and helped myself to a cup of wine and some chips because I had forgotten to eat before I left. Sally found her way over to me first, with some biscuits in her hand and a cup of wine in the other. She smirked at me and nudged me with her shoulder.

“Thanks for helping me out with the gifts.”

I thought it was the Christmas spirit making her so happy. She looked around and said, “Say, where is he anyway? Thought you two were joined at the hip.”

I was going to tell her that he wasn’t coming, but Greg came over to me and clapped a loud hand on my shoulder. Sally got the hint and walked over to Anderson.

“John! Glad you could make it!”

“Adding extra ‘spice’ to your wine, Greg?”

He put a finger to his lips and shushed me.

“Just something to help me make it through this godawful party.”

“Right.” He looked around too and noticed that I was without one Consulting Detective.

“Where’s Sherlock?”

I had just taken a bite of my biscuit when he asked me, so I had to swallow first. When I opened my mouth to tell him, one of the officers signaled for everyone to grab their gifts. I rolled my eyes at once again being interrupted, but Greg grabbed me by the arm and ushered me over to the circle in the middle of the office. When the exchanges took place, l handed my present over to Greg, who opened it with a grin on his face. All I got him was a new flask because Sherlock nicked his one time out of spite and I am not sure where it is now, or if it is even safe to be used anymore. He slapped me on the arm and immediately went over to the drinks to fill it.

I saw Sally walking over with her gift, it wasn’t too big, and she looked a bit disappointed.

“He didn’t show up, did he?”

I shook my head and looked down at my still wrapped present given to me by detective Johnson.

“He thought that this was a ploy to have a laugh at him, so he thought it best to stay home.”

She nodded in agreement and gave the box to me.

“It’s a shame really, I bet Anderson fifty quid that he’d show up, and find a way to make us all feel like shit.”

I took another sip of my drink and muttered, “Yeah, well he didn’t. Your office party is saved.”

She handed me the box and uttered a brief “Have a happy Christmas, John. You can tell him I said that.”

I let her disappear into the crowd before I took my own leave, giving Greg a short wave before exiting the building and returning to Sherlock. He seemed better in spirits when I came back. He asked me how the party was, and I told him it was an office party, it was horrible. He chuckled at that and saw the gift boxes in my hand. His face fell a little and he pointed to the boxes.

“Did your Santa give you two gifts?”

I shook my head and told him that the small box was for me, it was a watch. The other box was for him and he looked honestly shocked.

“Someone bought me a gift? Is it the hat again?”

“Why don’t you open it and find out?”

I offered the box to him, and for a moment he looked tempted, but he shook his head still refusing to believe that someone bought him a gift. I sighed and set the box on the kitchen table.

“I’m going to have a shower and make some dinner. The box is there whenever you want to open it, oh! Sally says, ‘happy Christmas’ by the way.”

I turned around and smiled to myself, hoping that he would get the hint. When I got out of the shower I saw him sitting at the table holding the gift in his hands. His eyes were wide when he held the plastic skull in his hands. They took his original one during the drug raid what feels like years ago, and all the other ones he’s managed to get his hands on were binned by Mrs. Hudson when she came to clean. I crossed my arms and leant against the frame of the doorway.

“She was my secret Santa?”

“Right.”

He rested the skull on his lap, and pulled out the little sleeve of some new forensic tools; it was a more recent version. He had a small smile on his face, but I knew that he was over the moon to have a new skull and a new kit. Sally had been paying attention it seemed.

“How nice of her.”

I smiled too at the sheer child-like joy of his and nodded. I patted him on the shoulder and headed over to the kitchen to start dinner. He sat in the chair and stared at his gifts the whole time I cooked and possibly after I went to bed.

The day after, when I got back from my shift, Sally sent me another message saying, “Thank him for me :)”, and then she sent a picture of her new beige coat that looked well over £100, with some Louis Vuitton heels. Sherlock came back as soon as I was typing a response. He shot me a smug look and then waltzed into his room. I typed back, “I think he knows already.”

\--

Speaking of, I think I hear him back from the shops, I should go help them now. I actually missed him while he was out! Maybe I'll get back to this, or maybe not. 


	2. Chapter 2

March 29th

It’s been three months since I’ve moved in with Sherlock and I’ve noticed small things about him. Not all of it is bad, mind you, he’s not so bad as roommate as most assume. Sure, there are nights where I wish he would sleep instead of furiously plucking away at his violin, or where he would stop muttering clues to himself like it was a race to solve the case. I think these things but then I realize that I’m not the greatest flatmate myself, and with time I think I learned how to tune that part out. He puts up with me the same I put up with him.

But I thought that, you know, someone as meticulous as Sherlock Holmes would be the one to nitpick at everything I do, and he does, he certainly has let me know on countless occasions that I type like a sloth (his own words) but beyond that he doesn’t hound me if I leave a cup of tea for too long on the coffee table, actually, now that I think about it, he probably doesn’t even notice.  It’s nice, I guess, to not have someone constantly up your arse about small things. But sometimes, he’s just maddening. He’ll often be so in his own head that he’ll clean up our dinner (while I’m still eating, mind you) and will just toss it all the while explaining his case summary. I spoke to him, and told him that next time he should ask if I’m finished, rather than just assume that because he’s done, I’m done too. He blinked like he was snapped out of his daze and then looked at the bin and back at me. He apologized shortly and then made his way over to the couch as if it never happened. There was something about the way he reacted that made my chest ache a bit.

I don’t think anyone’s ever just _spoke_ to Sherlock, whenever he did something, if he reads this I will never hear the end of it, clueless. There are moments where I catch him doing something a bit not good, like messing with my jumpers when I had literally not even five minutes ago told him not to, and the occasional wrecking of our dishes and silverware with his experiments. It pisses me off at times, that’s a pretty reasonable reaction, but I don’t shout at him. I just ask him what it is he’s doing, and he’ll tell me, I’ll just cross my arms and tell him that he should have asked me. That’s all, and yet he looks so surprised that I didn’t lash out. I don’t do it to infantilize him, because he’s a grown man and he is fully capable of rationalizing and taking care of himself, there was a time before he knew me. Part of me thought that he was doing these things to force me out of the flat, so I asked him about that and all he said was,

“Actually, quite the opposite.”

I was visibly confused at that point, and I asked him to clarify what he meant by that. He put down my soiled jumper and looked at me with a calm face.

“I was simply experimenting on how long it would take for you to move out.”

“Do…you want me to move out? I thought we got on fine when we first met.”

He looked down and there it was the embarrassment that he didn’t want me to see.

“You are wrong again.”

He didn’t say anything else after that and I realised that he wasn’t going to. It doesn’t take the mind of one Sherlock Holmes to understand what he was saying. I couldn’t help but smile, I was quite flattered, actually.

“It appears that I have grown quite…. accustomed to your presence in the flat and I would find it suitable if you were to stay.” He said that bit quietly and I couldn’t help but smile in his face. He started to twiddle his thumbs, and didn’t look me in the eye as he started talking.

“I’ve had flatmates before you, but they never lasted more than a month. They never said goodbye either. They pack while I’m out or asleep. If you were to leave too, I think you would be my last attempt at finding a flatmate.”

He looked like he lost his nerve, so he turned to walk away. I couldn’t just leave it at that, I think that’s the most sentimental that Sherlock’s ever been with somebody, and we’ve only lived together for a few months, by Sherlockian standards I am still pretty much a stranger.

“You’re right.”

He stopped in the doorway of the kitchen and turned his head so that I could see half of his face.

“I am your last flatmate.”

And there went the sad look in his eyes. I quickly opened my mouth and said, “I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. We’ve got a good thing here, I think.”

He looked shocked, and his shoulders slowly sagged as if he were holding his breath. He nodded and muttered a short, “Thank you, John.”

He started walking away, and while he was heading to his room I saw the smile curling on his lips. It felt nice, to tell him that. I don’t think Sherlock hears things like that very often, and it’s upsetting because he should. He’s not a bad guy, he just has moments where he finds it…difficult, to fit in. Yeah, he’s not the best flatmate, but nobody is. I don’t know where I was going with this, but it’s just something I’ve noticed about him. I think we’ll have a movie night tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is Johnlockerooni if anyone has any requests! 
> 
>  
> 
> Also guys, please bear with me, it's been a while since I've written johnlock so I'm kind of rusty. 
> 
> Please kudos/subscribe/share if you can!


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